


Roses are Red, I glow Blue

by Prudabaga



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidental Orgy, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Crack, It's all Varric's fault, M/M, Multi, Sebastian is scarred for life, a bunch of peeps hook up but only in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prudabaga/pseuds/Prudabaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Anders sleeps, Justice gets bored and decides to pass the time by reading Varric's pulp romance books. He then uses his newfound knowledge of mortal love to woo Fenris.</p>
<p>It goes about as well as you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Róże są czerwone, ja świecę na niebiesko](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182135) by [Regalia1992](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regalia1992/pseuds/Regalia1992)



> Soooooooooo I've never actually written fanfic before. I've never shared anything I've ever written, actually. And I'm including experimental drawings throughout, because why step outside my comfort zone when I can base jump off of it? It's unbeta'd at the moment since I'm not sure how to snag a beta--I'm guessing it involves bribes and maybe a weighted net? Will have to look into it further. Anyway, if you see errors, just let me know and I will fix them!
> 
> The whole story is written, I'm just finishing editing and adding little drawings to the other chapters. The whole thing should be up within a few days. 
> 
> TL;DR: Help! I'm in a pit of noob and I can't get out!

The smell was familiar. Fenris had woken to it many times, with many variations: the stale dusting of it on Danarius' floor, the heavy earthiness of it beneath his bed roll during camping trips, the mellow taste of it on the air during rainstorms. There was no mistaking it, no matter what its flavor. It was dirt.

And at the moment there was a sizable pile of it on his face.

Fenris blinked and shook his head. The movement sent small cascades of dirt rolling onto his mattress. It was cold, and as Fenris groped at it, struggling out of the alcoholic haze he'd spent the evening carefully cultivating, he realized that it was attached to the roots of a strange plant.

Why had he gone to bed with a plant on him? No, he remembered falling asleep, if only vaguely, and there had been no plant. Someone had placed it on him while he slept, then. _But why?_ _Poison? A ritual?_ He struggled to identify on the type of plant his assailant had used. Between the fuzziness in his head and the gunk in his eyes, it almost looked like roses.

Another handful of plant soared out of the darkness and hit him in the face, roots first. He sputtered and dragged himself upright.

Blue glowing eyes regarded him calmly from the foot of his bed. It was Anders—no, Anders had soft honey-brown eyes that sparkled when teasing Hawk, and that shone with a fanatic fervor when arguing with Fenris. But they never shone literally, not unless Justice held the wheel.

The Fade spirit blinked slowly at him, as if awaiting a reaction.

“Abomination,” hissed Fenris, adrenaline hitting him like a bucket of cold water. The pleasant buzz of the alcohol seemed miles away now. As did his weapon. He began to inch towards the edge of the bed, towards the chair where his sword lay. Not that one elf with a sword would be much use against the mage's demon, if it had finally turned on them. And it must have—for what other reason would it be sneaking into his home in the wee hours, other than to murder him in his sleep?

The demon didn't make any murdery moves, though. It just continued to watch Fenris with those inhuman, emotionless eyes, its hands cupping what looked like the remnants of someone's potted plant.

 

“Mage, are you in there?” Fenris looked deep into the demon's eyes, but saw no hint of Anders, which was kind of insulting, really. If Justice had come to kill Fenris, he would have hoped Anders would at least put up a token struggle. He thought that they'd been getting along better recently—they weren't bosom buddies, not even close, but they also weren't about to kill each other. At least, he'd thought they weren't. Clearly he had miscalculated. “Stop this, mage! Why-”

The demon lobbed the last bit of plant at Fenris gently. Fenris caught it, startled. “What-”

The demon's face didn't change, but Fenris could swear it somehow looked smug now. It nodded, turned on its heel, and walked out of his bedroom. Fenris could hear it stomping down his stairs, then out into the street.

Fenris looked down at his covers, ruined now with soil and stains from the mystery plant. “ _Kaffas_ , that demon is buying me new bed clothes,” he hissed, before scrambling into something decent and grabbing his weapon.

If the demon had gone insane, which at this point was the only explanation, someone needed to be there to protect the innocent. Preferably with back up.

 

* * *

 

 Fenris' first instinct, after he'd herded Hawke and the others into a sleepy but serviceable fighting party, had been to run to the Gallows where the demon would almost certainly be slaughtering templars. Hawke had advised restraint, however, insisting that they check Anders' clinic first. Well, he had after he'd finished sputtering and second guessing Fenris, that is.

 “And you're sure it was Justice?” Hawke asked again. “Like, really, really sure? Usually when he comes out-”

 “It's to fight, yes, I'm not stupid,” snapped Fenris.

 “Or when mages are being oppressed. Were you oppressing Blondie? At this hour in the morning?” Varric asked. He seemed torn between amusement and irritation.

 Fenris ignored him and quickened his steps. The sooner they searched Anders' clinic and found him missing, the sooner they would start taking this seriously and take real steps to stop this threat. The whole party seemed to be treating Fenris' warning that the demon had gone mad as if it was one big misunderstanding. Merrill had gone so far as to ask if it could have been a dream. _A dream_. Their disbelief made him snarl. Was it really so hard to believe a possessed mage could be unstable and dangerous?

 He kicked through the clinic door, ignoring Varric's protest that the lock could have been picked— _there was no time, a demon was on the loose, how did they not understand that yet_ —and pushed his way into the back where Anders would normally be sleeping.

 Where Anders _was_ sleeping, snoring lightly. He had the gall to look peaceful of all things, blonde hair fanned across his pillow like a halo of gold. He was beautiful, but Fenris knew better than to think beautiful meant good. Let the others be fooled, but he wouldn't drop his guard.

 He heard Hawke sigh behind him. “Fenris . . .”

 “Yes, I'm sure it wasn't a dream!” he said, and crossed the room, bringing his sword to Anders' throat.

 Anders' eyes opened at the touch of steel to his skin, and Fenris felt a moment of satisfaction that he wasn't the only one having a rude awakening today.

 “Um, hello?” Anders said, his eyes darting from Fenris' blade to Hawke and the others, all crowded around his cot. “Did I miss something important?”

 “Fenris, put your sword away,” said Hawke, and dammit, Fenris could hear the eye roll his his voice.

 “I will not! You've lost control, mage. Your demon,” he spat at Anders, “has been taking midnight strolls.”

 Anders at least had the good sense to look alarmed, unlike the others. “Justice? What did he do? Is everyone alright?”

 “No, everyone is not alright!” said Fenris. “He snuck into my home and assaulted me in my bed while I slept!”

 Anders' eyes widened.

 “Assaulted you?” Hawke sounded uneasy now. About time. “You said you saw him. You didn't say you fought.”

 “I wouldn't exactly describe it as a fight,” Fenris admitted.

 If possible, Anders' eyes grew larger.

 “If you don't believe me, I can show you the bedspread. The stains speak for themselves,” said Fenris.

 He could feel Hawke freeze beside him, and heard Varric's sharp intake of breath.

 “Anders, what's going on?” asked Hawke. Beside him, Merrill looked as lost as Hawke sounded, glancing from one party member to the other, trying to comprehend the change in mood.

 “I don't know, hold on. Justice is showing me images,” Anders said, his face pale. He began to sit up, and Fenris was forced to move his sword or skewer him on the spot. Anders didn't seem to notice, too lost in his own head. “I see the mansion—Justice was there, yes, he's showing the bedroom, and Fenris asleep.”

 “He confesses,” said Fenris, triumphant, and raised his sword again.

 Anders frowned. “He's also showing me . . . flowers?”

 “These!” Fenris pulled a couple of the offending flowers from his pocket and shook them at Anders. “He showed up in my bedroom and threw these in my face!”

 There was a moment of silence as the group considered the crumpled flowers.

 “He showed up and threw flowers at you?” Hawke asked. “And then . . .”

 “And then he left!”

 Hawke seemed to deflate a little. Varric started making an odd choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

 “It's not funny.”

 “Of course not,” Hawke reassured him.

 “I got dirt in my eye.”

 “Hate it when that happens.”

 “And there's potting soil and green flower goo stains all over the blanket now,” Fenris continued, but the shock and horror Hawke had felt seconds ago were clearly gone.

 “Bummer,” Hawke agreed. “And also weird. But if you're not hurt-”

 “Other than the dirt in my eye.”

 “-other than that, yes, I say we call it a night and figure this out in the morning.”

The rest of the party began to file out. Varric's forced coughing did nothing to cover the fact that he was still laughing. Merrill looked confused, and as they left he could hear the faint sounds of her asking Hawke what all the fuss had been about. She continued on to say that it was okay, she'd been saving the money from her adventures, and she could help buy a new blanket for Fenris if that was the problem. Hawke shushed her.

Fenris scowled at their retreating backs. They were idiots to ignore the threat that the abomination's loss of control posed. He looked back at Anders, who was staring morosely at the flowers in Fenris' hand.

 “Well, shit,” said Anders. “Those were a present from a patient. I spent months trying to get them to bloom. Do you know how hard it is to grow things other than fungus down here?”

“Keep them then,” snapped Fenris. He threw them at Anders' face, hoping for a bit of pay back, but Anders caught them, denying Fenris even that satisfaction.

Fenris snarled and turned to follow the others, slamming Anders' door behind him so hard that bits of it splintered. He'd ruined two of the mage's doors, and the mage had ruined his bedspread. He decided that made them as close to even as they'd get.

“Next time your demon wants to leave me a gift, tell it I prefer the heads of my enemies,” he shouted back through the broken door.

“Will do! As is, or gift wrapped?” Anders shouted back, and Fenris wished he hadn't shut the door so the mage could see his answering hand gesture.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, when he awoke to decapitated heads decorating his staircase, he realized that he should have answered gift wrapped. As it was, the bloodstains were never going to come out of his carpet, and there was no way the mage had anything he could break that was of equal value.

 

* * *

  

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Hawke admitted, taking in the heads. Varric and Merrill hovered behind him, giving the heads looks of concern and curiosity respectively.

 “They're arranged quite nicely,” Merrill said. As if that was supposed to make Fenris feel better.

 The worst part was that she was right. Someone—Justice, certainly—had taken the time to carefully arrange the heads in a pattern.

“You think he planned it out ahead of time? Say, he knew he needed ten heads, so he tracked down ten people? And if there were eleven in the group he said nope, not going to kill you today, only need ten?” Merrill said. “Or do you think he just free-styled it? No, Justice doesn't seem the sort. I bet you he had a diagram and everything.” 

Any further musings were cut off by Anders bursting through the door, cursing at Isabela, who had him by the arm.

“I'm needed back at the clinic! This is a waste of time. Justice wouldn't just go off and kill people,” Anders said, then froze as he came into view of the display on the stairs.

“You sure about that?” Isabela patted him on the shoulder and gave him a grin, though Fenris could tell by the strain of it that she was as unnerved as he was.

Anders was silent for a moment. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He cocked his head to the side and squinted at the heads. “Are they arranged in a—no. It can't be. I'm going crazy.”

“So I've been saying,” agreed Fenris.

“But seriously, are those heads arranged in a heart?”

The whole group eyed the stairs, where the heads formed the unmistakable outline of a heart symbol, spread across several tiers of stairs.

“They appear to be,” admitted Hawke.

 

 

 

 Fenris ignored Isabela's ensuing catcall and rounded on the abomination, who had the nerve to look as befuddled as Fenris felt. “Mage! I know it was you! Explain!”

Anders paused, listening to the demon. “It was Justice. The heads belonged to slavers,” he said. “Justice found them lurking around Lowtown at night.”

“And why was Justice wandering around Lowtown? If you wanted to fight slavers, Anders, you know we'd have been happy to help,” Hawke said.

 Anders didn't answer, clearly still conversing with his demon, his expression confused. A minute passed in tense silence while they waited for the mage to come to an internal conclusion.

Fenris slammed his fist down onto a bannister, tired of waiting. “Well? Your demon has been possessing you without your knowledge, sneaking around Kirkwall killing people, and then using their bodies to decorate my house! What does it have to say for itself?”

“He thought you would like it?” Anders offered weakly, shrugging, his eyes still focused inwards. “I don't know what's gotten into him, honestly.” 

“Fewer slavers in Lowtown is alright in my book,” said Isabela. “Though really, Justice, you should know better. Fenris isn't a material sort of elf. Giving him gifts isn't the way to go about it.”

Fenris shot Isabela a warning glare, but she continued, grinning. “If you _really_ want to woo him, you'll show him you care. Poetry and serenades and long walks on the beach in the moonlight. That's the way to do it.”

Anders groaned. “Don't give Justice ideas, Isabela,” he said.

But it was too late. Fenris knew it the second Isabela had opened her mouth. When he found the first poem a week later, tucked inside a box of sweets on his doorstep, his first thought was only to wonder that it had taken so long to turn up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter: in which Justice tries his hand at poetry and Fenris continues his impression of the Kool-Aid Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta'd by the awesome IoniaFletcher! Thank you so much!

It had been a slow day at the clinic. The warm summer air had people relaxed, slow— _slothful_ , Justice supplied—and the injuries had been few. The worst of the winter's fevers and the spring's allergies had passed. Anders sighed and stretched, enjoying the reprieve.

As the last few patients trickled out he began to close shop--throwing away used bandages, wiping down the tables, cleaning out the old potion flasks. The work was mindless, and Anders let himself fall into it. For once, his mind was at peace, Justice mercifully quiet.

Too quiet, maybe. But no, Anders avoided that thought. He could enjoy a few moments without worrying.

As he dusted the drawer handles on his desk—and, okay, he might have been procrastinating at this point, reluctant to disturb his inner peace—he caught a glimpse of his manifesto out of the corner of his eye. He sighed.

“I'll work on it in a few minutes, okay?” he promised Justice.

Justice gave him the mental equivalent of a distracted hand wave. Anders frowned. Usually Justice would have been hounding him about his duty by now, but the spirit was clearly focused on something else.

“Well, this can't be good.”

A few seconds later he was proved right as an angry, glowing elf crashed through his door. Again.

“You realize those door things open, right? You don't have to destroy them to get through them,” Anders said. He should have been startled by the elf's intrusion, but, he realized with sinking dread, he'd been expecting him. Or rather, Justice had been expecting him.

“Explain this,” Fenris snarled, brandishing a small bit of paper. “And this!” He held up a box of sweets that Anders vaguely recalled seeing in a vendor's booth in Hightown.

“You saw a lover's gift and thought it was from me? Really, Fenris, I'm honored, but I just don't think we're compatible. You know, what with hating each other. But don't worry, I still value you as an enemy.”

Fenris slammed the box of sweets down on his desk and thrust the piece of paper at Anders. “I know it's not from you. This is your demon's work!”

“And very demonic work it is, too. You think he's playing the slow game? Trying to corrupt you with cavities?”

“Read the poem, mage.”

The piece of paper in Anders' hand was small and crumpled, and had clearly been torn from a larger sheet of parchment. The letters themselves were shaky and uncertain and surrounded by inkblots, as if the writer had never tried to write before and wasn't quite sure how to work a quill pen, but they were legible nonetheless.

 

“ _Roses are red,_

_I glow blue,_

_You deserve justice,_

_In your life, and in you.”_

 

Anders choked.

Fenris had, impossibly, turned a brighter shade of red. “Do you see what I mean? That, that thing, it wants to have,” he paused, struggling for words. “It wants to have _relations_ with me!”

“Justice doesn't,” Anders started to say, but stopped as Justice made what could only be described as a happy hum in the back of his head. He looked back at the poem.

He could feel Justice's satisfaction and—yes, that was a little bit of pride there, looking at the poem. Images flashed through his head of late nights spent scribbling variations upon variations, scrapping paper after paper after paper, until he finally got it right. Triumph! Happiness. Eagerness, with a flash of another image—fuzzier this time, an imagined event, not a memory—of Fenris reading the poem and eating the sweets. The fantasy zoomed in, lingering on Fenris' lips wrapping around the delicacies, on his tongue flicking out, searching for the last bits of honey on his fingers. Anders shook his head, chasing away the image as those fingers returned to the mouth, and were sucked in for a more thorough cleaning.

“Andraste's tits, Justice. I didn't know you had it in you,” said Anders hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something other than the elf's body _—long, lean, with lyrium singing like home, beautiful_ —Justice supplied unhelpfully.

_Dead kittens and templars_ , Anders shot back, fighting to keep his body from responding.

He shifted to put the desk between him and Fenris. The last thing this conversation needed was for Fenris to see Anders and Justice visibly aroused. The poor elf's head would probably explode right there, and wouldn't that be a mess to clean up. It would get all over his papers. Which, now that he was looking carefully at the desk, carefully at anything other than Fenris, really, he noticed there were less of those papers than there should have been. He could have sworn there had been a stack of clean sheets right there. “Dammit, how much paper did you go through writing that poem? It was _four lines_ , Justice! Paper is expensive!”

“That's your biggest issue with this?” said Fenris, sputtering.

Justice failed to produce the expected flash of guilt at the mention of the wasted paper. Instead he sent a stream of memories, of conversations and events, that showed the injustices Fenris had suffered. _Had persevered through_ , Justice corrected excitedly. Had worked to right! Tirelessly, selflessly working to make the world a better place.

“Except for mages,” Anders reminded Justice, picking out memories of arguments with Fenris.

Justice was unfazed. He threw back memories of Fenris following Hawke, working alongside them, though grudgingly, as they fought against templar cruelty. _Not perfectly just, no, but he could learn from us. We could teach him_ , Justice insisted. _Hawke would help—Hawke is good, and a mage. And surely bringing happiness to a noble person who has suffered so unjustly is in itself a just action? Is worthy of our time and paper?_

“Oh hush, you just like his lyrium.”

“So it admits it,” said Fenris.

Anders' eyes snapped to the elf's face. Strange emotions flickered across it—horror, surprise, fear, interest.

“I think me and Justice need some time to talk,” Anders said. “He's, uh, still getting used to having human form. He's just confused.”

_A lie, unjust._

“Oh, shut up, Justice.”

“Then talk to it, abomination. Let there be no more confusion,” Fenris said. “If it sneaks into my house again, I'll rip both your throats out.”

Fenris reached across the desk and grabbed Anders' throat, lyrium brands lighting as he demonstrated his power and his willingness to follow through on his threat.

As the lyrium came to life against Anders' skin, Justice keened, surging to the front of Anders' mind, towards the touch. A wave of pleasure and blue light overwhelmed Anders' vision, and in the distance he could hear someone howling. It sounded so far away . . . but no, it was his voice, he could feel it ripping through him, his back arching, but the sound was wrong. Justice's voice, then.

The hand was gone as quickly as it had come. Anders felt Justice's knees give out, saw him barely catch himself from falling face first onto the floor, his skin crackling blue, tingling with residual pleasure, sparkling with almost painful desire. He could hear the elf's lyrium singing to him, so close.

He, no, Justice, no— _they—_ they reached towards the song, but it stepped out of their reach. The elf stumbled backwards, clumsy, not like him at all.

And then the song was gone and so was Fenris, fleeing the clinic like an Archdemon was at his heels.

With the song gone, Anders felt his head clear, and Justice receded a little, though not all the way. His skin still shone with spirit cracks, though only faintly now.

He was hard, painfully so. He reached up to rub at his neck, and the area sent lyrium aftershocks through his body.

He gasped, fumbling with his pants, trying, failing, to get through the fabric. _Dammit, why were there so many fasteners?_ Justice sent waves of frustration through him, cursing his slowness.

“Not helping, Justice!” Anders snapped.

Justice surged into Anders' hand, taking control of it and ripping through the fabric. Anders spared a faint thought that he'd have to buy new pants—even if these could be repaired, he couldn't imagine explaining to the local seamstress how he'd damaged them.

_Not relevant_ , snapped Justice, and crowded out thoughts seamstresses with thoughts of Fenris. As Justice stroked him roughly, Anders found his mind filled with images of that glowing lyrium all around him, pulsing, touching him, _inside him_ . . .

He came hard, gasping Fenris' name.

Justice rode the climax with him, then receded into the back of Anders' mind, mellow and quiet.

“So Isabela was right?” Anders said, voice shaky, as he cleaned himself up with a nearby scrap of cloth bandage. “All you really needed to relax was an orgasm?”

Justice hummed contentedly. Anders shook his head and moved to throw the bandage away, but stopped as he got a closer look at the contents of his waste basket.

“Are . . . are these your failed drafts?” Anders said. He rummaged through the crumpled papers, wincing at some of the earlier attempts. “Well, you did give him the best of the poems,” he admitted reluctantly. “Roses are red, I glow blue, rhyming is hard, and so am I? Really?”

_The final poem is good,_ agreed Justice.

“I didn't say that. Wait, what's this?” Anders held up a larger scrap of paper. “Is this a diagram? Did you _diagram_ out the heart before killing those slavers?”

 

* * *

 

Later, when they opened the box of sweets—no point in letting them go to waste—they found that all the little honey nut cakes were missing. Justice preened at the discovery.

 

_The singing elf accepted our gift. He is interested._ Justice practically oozed satisfaction.

Anders sighed. “It's more complicated than that. He probably just likes honey cakes and was hungry. Though how he still had an appetite after reading your poetry . . .”

_Then we shall buy him more honey cakes!_

Sometimes Anders envied the spirit. The world he lived in was simple, all black and white, no shades of grey to muddy the waters. In his eyes, Fenris had accepted them. All they had to do was go to him.

He felt Justice protest. _I understand mortal romance. It is not so complicated as you make it out to be._

“Oh? And where does your vast knowledge of the romantic arts come from?” said Anders, snorting.

In his mind's eye he saw a familiar book cover, one he'd thought he had thrown out months ago.

 

* * *

 

“This is all your fault!”

Varric looked up from his hand of cards, one eyebrow raised. He didn't look surprised, and Anders realized that this wasn't the first time that someone had shouted something similar at him, and it probably wouldn't be the last time, either.

Most of their friends group—Fenris mercifully excluded—were there as well. Anders had forgotten that tonight was Wicked Grace night.

“Here to join us, Blondie?” Varric asked, patting the empty seat beside him.

Anders ignored the invitation. “You gave me that damned book of yours. This is your fault!”

Varric perked up. “ _Hard in Hightown_? You read it?”

“No, that awful pulp romance one.”

Varric laughed. “S _words and Shields_? Blondie, you realize I dropped that off as a joke, right? Remember, we were talking about how you needed to loosen up, and I told you I had just the thing? You weren't supposed to actually read the blighted book.”

“Oh, I didn't. I threw it out immediately.”

Varric mock-clutched at his heart, feigning pain.

“But then when I was sleeping, Justice dug it out of the trash.”

Varric blinked. “Justice did? Why?”

_I get bored while you sleep_. Justice sounded petulant, like a kid who'd been caught robbing the cookie jar, but who was stubbornly refusing to admit he'd done anything wrong.

“He gets bored,” sighed Anders. “He dug it out to read it.”

 

Varric squirmed uneasily in his chair. “Is he going to smite me for what happened in chapter three? Because I swear it's all fiction. He understands the difference between reality and fiction, right?”

_Chapter three was good_ , Justice informed Anders.

“Dear Maker, he didn't read the whole thing, did he?” asked Hawke, looking a little pale. “I couldn't make it through the first chapter. No wonder he went insane. Ow, ow! Varric, do you sharpen those elbows?”

“He read all of it,” confirmed Anders sadly. “And not just that. I found the sequels tucked away behind my medical texts.”

A chorus of commiserating murmurs echoed around the table. Even Varric shook his head, looking troubled.

“Your spirit is reading romance serials now? Do I want to know why?” asked Aveline.

“Probably not,” said Isabela. “So I'll tell you. Our dear friend Justice-”

Anders felt Justice go all fuzzy and warm at that, and found he didn't have the heart to explain sarcasm.

“-has fallen deeply, tragically in love with the untouchable Tevinter elf.” Isabela sighed and fluttered her eyes theatrically. “Forbidden love, so romantic.”

“Oh hush, it's not love, it's just a lyrium kink,” said Anders.

“Nope, nope, not hearing this,” said Carver, covering his ears. Isabela laughed delightedly. Merrill looked intrigued.

“I suppose the lyrium tattoos would fascinate him,” Merrill said. She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully “Do they call to him? Oh, yes, they must scream to him when they're activated. They must be practically irresistible. And since he's in a human body, I suppose it makes sense that his longing would manifest as physical urges. Does he experience pleasure when he touches Fenris? Or-”

“Still not hearing this. I'm done, I'm out,” said Carver loudly, hands still over his ears as he hurried from the room.

“I'm not hearing this either,” said Aveline, face calm. “But I'm not leaving till I beat the whore at this damned game.”

“Honey, if that's true you'll be here till you're as shriveled and dried up as your cu-”

“IT'S NOT A LYRIUM KINK,” Justice bellowed.

Everyone froze, and Anders spared a moment to be thankful that they were in a private room. Aveline, Hawke, and Isabela were shifting towards their weapons, preparing to defend themselves. Justice didn't seem to notice.

Unlike the times Justice had taken over during fights, Anders could still see and hear. Justice was more grumpy than angry. “I WILL NOT HAVE ANDERS BELITTLING OUR LOVE.”

“'Course not, I'm sure Anders didn't really mean it,” said Varric in his most soothing, no-one-needs-to-die-today voice. His hands were held out, placating. “Maybe you could let him back out? We could explain to him how much this all means to you, and no ones needs to be smited?”

“I READ YOUR BOOKS, DWARF,” said Justice. He turned and pinned the dwarf with his burning blue gaze. Varric paled, but kept smiling.

“Er, yes, about that . . .”

“THEY WERE QUITE INSTRUCTIVE.”

Varric coughed nervously. “It is a work of fiction, of course, so take it with a grain of salt.”

“I HAVE NO NEED FOR SUCH A SMALL AMOUNT OF SALT,” Justice said. He paused. “ANDERS INFORMS ME THIS IS A 'FIGURE OF SPEECH'.”

“So Anders is still there? He can still hear us?” said Hawke hopefully. He waved a hand in front of Justice's eyes. Justice batted his hand away.

“I WILL NOT INTRUDE ON YOUR GAME MUCH LONGER. I MERELY WISHED TO INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE LEARNED ALL I NEED TO KNOW TO ABOUT MORTAL MATING HABITS. REST ASSURED I WILL TREAT FENRIS WELL. I WILL PROTECT HIM FROM FURTHER INJUSTICES.”

“Damn, Justice, you got it bad for him,” said Isabela softly. She sounded truly compassionate for a moment, and Anders thanked her silently for it. Justice, however, was not impressed.

“THAT ONE CHEATS. THERE ARE CARDS HIDDEN IN HER BOSOM.”

Aveline stopped reaching for her sword and started reaching for Isabela's chest. “I knew it, I knew you were cheating!”

“IT IS UNJUST,” agreed Justice. He watched Isabela try, unsuccessfully, to stop Aveline's hand from snaking down her blouse. “JUST LIKE IN CHAPTER THREE,” he said, his booming voice wistful.

Aveline and Isabela froze.

“YOU DO NOT NEED TO STOP. IT IS PLEASING TO WATCH,” Justice reassured them.

Aveline sprang back, her face the same bright red as her hair. In her hand were a couple crumpled cards, now forgotten.  
“Well, will you look at that,” said Varric, whistling softly “Justice is a perv.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! Thanks again to IoniaFletcher for helping whip this chapter into shape :D!

Fenris didn't remember how he'd gotten back to his mansion from the clinic. The trip was a blur of confusion and, though he loathed to admit it, arousal.

The mage's face when Fenris had touched him . . . Maker forgive him, he couldn't get it out of his mind. For the first second, Fenris had thought the spirit was screaming in agony, tortured by the lyrium into taking over of Anders' body. He'd been horrified—he enjoyed tormenting Anders verbally on their excursions together ( _though how much of that was to see his eyes flash, to see his cheeks flush, and his chest heave?_ ) but he'd never intentionally inflict pain on the mage, no matter how much they disagreed. He wasn't that sort of person. He wasn't Danarius.

But as Fenris had leaped backward, dropping the spirit, it had become clear that Justice hadn't been in pain. The way his back arched, his hips jerked, his muscles seized, had all suddenly taken on a new meaning. Without direct contact with Fenris' lyrium, Justice's cry had quickly tapered off into a moan. When he'd looked up at Fenris, blue eyes hooded and flashing, Fenris had been unable to stop his mind from turning to thoughts of what he and his lyrium could do to the spirit with more time and a more controlled application of power.

And when Justice and Anders had reached out—and dammit, when had he gotten so close to the mage that he could tell that Anders was present too, just by the quirk of his lips, the slant of his eyebrows—Fenris had come dangerously close to giving in and finding out. But no, he wasn't that weak. He wasn't going to keel over and rut around on the floor with a mage and a demon just because the abomination came in a pretty package.

And had a pretty package, his traitorous memory supplied, as his mind flashed back to the sizable tent in the mage's robe.

_Fasta vass_! He stomped down to the wine cellar and grabbed two bottles, ignoring the tightness in his pants. He was going to get good and drunk, until he couldn't remember what the abomination looked like, or how kind he was. Kind, and selfless, and honorable . . . everything an abomination wasn’t.

If he were being honest with himself, which he really wasn’t drunk enough to be doing, not yet, he’d have to admit that lately he’d only been calling Anders an abomination out of habit. Okay, habit, and maybe a desire to see the mage hop and sputter around. _Like a boy pulling a little girl’s pigtails_ , his traitorous mind supplied. He smiled grimly at the thought of how Anders would react to that comparison. Not only would he be insulted, he’d be disgusted--no matter how lovestruck the Fade spirit was, Anders had made his own opinion on Fenris very clear. Fenris’ feelings were irrelevant to the matter. There was no point in agonizing over a decision that had been made for him.

He uncorked the first bottle, and settled down for a long night.

 

* * *

 

A bottle and a half in, when he remembered that tonight was Wicked Grace night, he figured it was safe enough to head out. After that display, the mage would probably sulk alone in his clinic for at least a day or so.

Not alone though, not really. He was with Justice, wasn't he? And when Fenris had left, Justice and Anders had both been aroused, needy. Would one take control of the body, while the other trembled in pleasure, unable to move? Or would they work together, touching their shared body as a lover would, hands caressing, lips trembling, bringing themselves to the edge and—nope, nope, the wine was _not_ helping.

Fenris pulled himself to his feet and wobbled towards the door. He needed his friends right now. His nice, friendly, libido killing friends. Oh sure, they were all pretty enough, but no arousal could withstand the force of their bickering. Isabela and Aveline alone could wilt an army.

 

* * *

 

Isabela and Aveline were not, to Fenris' surprise, at each other's throats, at least not in the way Fenris had anticipated. The smoldering looks they were sending each other were the opposite of a mood killer, but really, they were the least of Fenris' worries.

“What is HE doing here?” Fenris snarled, pointing at Justice, who was seated next to Varric, and who was currently frowning at a hand of cards.

Justice beamed at him. Literally. The cracks in his skin shone just a little bit brighter, just for a second.

“Learning how to bluff,” said Hawke. He sounded tired. “It's going about as well as you'd expect.”

“LYING IS UNJUST.”

Varric reached up to pat Justice on the shoulder, sneaking a quick glance at the spirit's cards as he did so. “It's not lying, just misdirecting.”

 

“LYING BY OMISSION IS STILL LYING, AND LYING IS UNJUST.”

“Why are you playing cards—no, you know what, never mind, I don't care. Let Anders out!” said Fenris. He glared at the rest of his friends. “How can you just sit there while Anders is trapped! It's one thing in battle, but for this, this game-”

“We've been trying, Broody, but Anders doesn't want to come out and play right now,” said Varric. “And I, uh, can't really blame him.”

“ANDERS SAID THAT HE WAS EMBARRASSED AND THAT HE HATED EVERYONE, BUT THAT LAST PART WAS A LIE. HE LOVES YOU ALL VERY MUCH,” said Justice. “BUT HE'S STILL GOING TO HIDE FROM YOU FOR A BIT. HE IS STRANGE.”

“No arguments here,” said Hawke, taking a very long pull from his ale.

“Embarrassed?” said Fenris.

“Justice has different standards of decency than most people,” Merrill explained. Her face was a bit flushed, and Fenris didn't like the way her eyes were raking over Justice.

“He has no filter,” translated Hawke.

“MORTAL LOVE IS NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF.”

“So I keep saying,” Isabela agreed, eyes still on Aveline.

“Yes, but there's a difference between loving someone, and suggesting they get down to business on top of a table so you can watch,” snapped Aveline, but there was no real anger in her voice. Heat, yes, but not anger.

“YOU WERE ENGAGING IN FOREPLAY BENEATH THE TABLE-”

“Footsie, Justice, footsie,” interrupted Isabela, laughing.

“FOOTSIE FOREPLAY. YOU WERE CONCEALING IT, PRETENDING IT WAS NOT HAPPENING. LYING BY OMISSION IS STILL LYING, AND LYING-”

“Is unjust,” the group chorused.

“That's a bit of a stretch Justice, even for you, you have to admit,” said Varric.

Fenris wondered if the whole world had gone mad, or just him.

“I WILL ADMIT NO SUCH THING. BOTH MYSELF AND ANDERS WERE AROUSED BY THE IDEA OF ISABELA AND AVELINE DISPLAYING THEIR AFFECTION PUBLICLY, AND HAWKE AND VARRIC WERE VISIBLY INTRIGUED AS WELL.” Justice paused to peek under the table. “AND APPEAR TO STILL BE INTERESTED. MERRILL, AS A FEMALE, SHOWS NO OUTWARD SIGNS OF PHYSICAL AROUSAL BUT HER HEIGHTENED COLOR AND DILATED PUPILS SUGGEST SHE WOULD BE AMENABLE. THE TABLE IS ELEVATED AND WOULD PROVIDE A GOOD VIEW FOR ALL.”

“Oh sweet Maker,” whispered Fenris.

Hawke made a noise that was half laugh, half whimper, and buried his face in his arms. “There isn't enough beer in Thedas for this,” he said, muffled.

“ANDERS AGREES.”

Varric put his cards down on the table with a sigh. “Perhaps you should go discuss this with Fenris. Some might consider attempting to instigate an orgy with your friends an example of infidelity to your partner. And infidelity, inflicted on such a good hearted soul as Fenris here, would be-”

“UNJUST,” Justice finished, blue eyes widening in horror.

“Partner? When did I become his partner?” said Fenris, but at that moment Justice jumped to his feet, and the group's attention was suddenly elsewhere.

“Wow. Fenris is lucky,” said Merrill.

Fenris growled at her.

“You, uh, may want to have that conversation in one of the rooms here. You probably don't want to walk through Kirkwall in your condition,” said Varric.

“You mean glowing blue, right? Tell me you mean glowing blue,” said Hawke, his face still buried in his arms.

“Yeah, that too.”

Hawke groaned. “I should have left when Carver did.”

“Aww, but then you would have missed the orgy,” piped in Merrill.

“Orgy? Did you all really, you know . . ?” Fenris started to say, intrigued despite himself, but Justice had already grabbed him by the arm and was dragging him out of the room.

“There is no orgy!” he heard Hawke yelp as the door swung closed.

“. . . yet,” Isabela purred, faintly, then Justice and he rounded a corner and burst into a vacant room, and even his elf ears couldn't pick up what happened next.

 

* * *

 

Once inside the room, Justice whirled to face Fenris, his expression troubled. “I MEANT NO INJUSTICE TO YOU, BELOVED. I WOULD NOT HAVE HAD PHYSICAL RELATIONS WITH OTHERS WITHOUT DISCUSSING IT WITH YOU FIRST.”

“Um.”

“AND WITHOUT YOU JOINING IN.”

Justice's blue glow vanished, and Anders was suddenly there, flushed with embarrassment. “Stop it, Justice!” he gasped. “Fenris, blast it, I'm sorry, he doesn't understand—I UNDERSTAND JUST FINE—that we're not together—WE ARE, HE ATE THE HONEY CAKES, HE LIKES US—and he can't seem it get it through his thick skull—OUR SKULL IS NORMALLY PROPORTIONED—that you don't even like us. You hate us!”

“Um.”

Anders flickered blue on and off again. He backed up, panting, his embarrassed flush deepening into one of anger.

“And even if you didn't hate us—HE DOESN'T, HE IS A GOOD PERSON, WE ARE A GOOD PERSON, WHY WOULD HE HATE US—because we're a mage, bloody stupid spirit! And even if you didn't hate us, I hate you! DECEPTION IS UNJUST. Shut up, Justice! YOU DREAM ABOUT HIM, YOU LOVE HIM. That's you! NOT JUST ME. US.”

Anders backed into the wall, and his legs buckled. He slid to the ground, but didn't seem to notice.

“That's not true! It’s just a little crush!” said Anders, looking desperate. “ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF LYING? YOU DARE QUESTION MY INTEGRITY, MORTAL? Integrity? I saw your fantasies, don't you sit on some high horse, looking down at me! I AM NOT ON A HORSE AT THE MOMENT.”

Fenris cleared his throat, hoping to interrupt before things got violent, but neither Anders nor Justice seemed to hear him.

“You don't understand how these things work! Real life is more complicated than the Fade, and it's a damned sight more complicated than those romance books! I KNOW FEELINGS. WE LOVE HIM. WHAT IS COMPLICATED ABOUT THAT? He doesn't love us! WELL, MAYBE NOT YOU. _I_ HAVE BEEN WOOING HIM.”

A non-glowing hand reached up and slapped Justice in the face. Justice retreated, and Anders grinned triumphantly until a blue glowing hand reached up and slapped him back.

“That's enough!” Fenris yelled.

“You think reading a few books makes you an expert on romance? I've had real romances, with real people! AND HOW MANY OF THEM LASTED? HOW MANY OF THEM DID YOU LOVE? That's not the point! FENRIS IS NOT SOME CHEAP DISTRACTION, UNLIKE MANY OF THE OTHER MORTALS YOU HAVE SATED YOURSELF UPON. Idiot spirit! CIRCLE SLUT!”

Fenris swore, and activated his lyrium for a moment.

Justice and Anders shuddered to a halt, eyes wide. They were both watching him now, finally silent, _thank the Maker_.

“I don't hate you,” said Fenris. He hadn’t hated Anders for a while now, he realized. He still wasn’t comfortable with all that mage liberation stuff Anders was always going on about, but Anders was more than that. Anders healed the sick, with no thought to his own financial gain. He fought alongside Hawke as they worked to make Kirkwall as safer place, putting himself in the line of fire in the process. He risked everything he had, every day, and asked for nothing in return. He was the opposite of the Tevinter magisters Fenris had once accused him of idolizing.

Anders was alright. More than alright. Wine was good for those sort of revelations.

And as for Justice, well. Hadn’t he spent his whole life searching for justice?

Anders blinked. “Well. Okay. Um. That's a start, I guess. I, uh, don’t hate you either?”

Justice nodded. “WE CAN WORK WITH THAT.”

Fenris crouched down, and reached out to touch Anders' face. Where his fingers trailed, blue cracks appeared. He could see both Anders and Justice watching him hungrily, and when he pressed their lips together, he could hear echoes of them both in the resulting moan.

He slid his hand down, skirting across the rough fabric of Anders' robe, until he found the bottom edge. He gave the inside of Anders' knee a reassuring rub, then began to slip his hand back up, massaging Anders' thigh as he went.

Anders gasped as Fenris flicked his brands on and then off again.

“You like that?” Fenris murmured against his lips.

Justice growled and bit at Fenris' bottom lip, before moving lower to taste the lyrium lines on his chin.

Fenris grinned. The wine and the heady thrum of the spirit on his lyrium had his head spinning, and he knew they'd have to have a serious discussion about all of this in the morning, preferably with less slapping this time, but for now . . .

His hand reached his destination, and he paused.

“Anders, why is the crotch of your pants torn out?”

“Story for another time, love,” said Anders. His skin crackled blue, and with Justice's strength to back him up he scooped Fenris into his arms and carried him to the bed.

Once there they made short work of their clothes—Anders taking control firmly from Justice this time, as to not have to buy entirely new outfits—and Fenris got to see Anders' full body for the first time.

He was beautiful, his smooth skin rippling with flashes of blue, and his body surprisingly toned from their long excursions. He was also thin, very thin, and there were many scars. Another serious discussion for another time. Fenris kissed Anders' chest, then his belly, then moved lower. He smirked.

Merrill was right. He was lucky.

He kissed the tip of Anders' cock lightly, tongue flicking out to tease at the first few drops of pre-cum gathering there. Anders gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Fenris readjusted his grip on Anders' hips, gave him one last grin, then swallowed him down in one smooth motion.

Anders cried out, bucking at Fenris' restraining hand, but Fenris held him down. His other hand slipped behind Anders' thighs, caressing the skin behind his balls, searching lower, stroking . . .

_There_. Fenris lightly pressed one finger forward, so its tip came to rest ever so lightly on Anders' softest, most sensitive area. He could feel the muscles there tense, tight and trembling.

Fenris activated his brands.

Not all of them at once—he wanted this to last just a bit longer at least, but just the brands on that hand. It was more than enough. Blue cracks split Anders' body as Justice surged forward with a hoarse cry, writhing and arching on the bed.

Fenris hummed in satisfaction around Justice, please to hear the vibration drag another shout out of the spirit. Blue eyes stared at him from the head of the bed in awe.

Fenris resumed his rhythm, alternating sucking and licking, with occasional flares from his lyrium to keep Justice on edge. When he felt the other man's balls tightening and thighs tensing, he pushed down one more time and activated the brands on his throat.

Justice screamed, pulsing. The light across his skin was almost blinding for a moment, peaking at the same time as the spirit, and then it faded slowly, dying out as Justice's body went limp.

Fenris pulled off him and licked his lips. Justice's eyes followed the movement weakly before fluttering closed.

“That good?” said Fenris.

The answering “ngh” was all Anders. Fenris crawled up beside him and nudged him gently.

“Hey, mage, reciprocity much?”

Another “ngh”, this time accompanied by a beckoning hand.

Fenris wriggled closer, fitting himself into Anders' hand. Anders' fingers curled around him weakly, strength not yet fully recovered, and began to stroke.

It didn't take long, not with Anders' taste on his tongue, and Anders' climax in his mind's eye.

“I'm close,” he whispered hoarsely, and Anders sped his hand up.

“Good, come already. I'm tired. I want to sleep.”

“So romantic,” said Fenris. He's intended it to come out as biting, but halfway through the sentence Anders' thumb flicked over the tip of his cock, and his voice broke into a gasp.

“SEE ANDERS? I TOLD YOU I WAS ROMANTIC,” rumbled Justice smugly.

“Oh, hush,” said Anders and Fenris is unison.

Anders tightened his hand once, twice, and then Fenris was coming in long stripes along his chest.

He lay there panting, unable to move. After a few seconds he managed to reach over the side of the bed, fishing around for a spare piece of cloth to clean himself with. He came up with Anders' pants, and well, they were already ruined, weren't they?

As he wiped himself off, he felt Anders move behind him, stretching along the length of his back until they were pressed together from head to toe. The larger man curled around him protectively, one arm slung around Fenris' waist.

“WE _WERE_ ROMANTIC,” Justice insisted as Fenris leaned back into his embrace.

Fenris patted Justice's arm reassuringly.

Anders sighed. “Please tell me you weren't planning on taking Isabela's advice about the serenade.”

“I HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO MASTER THE LUTE TO THE DEGREE OF PROFICIENCY DESIRED. Is that what that pile of splintered wood in the corner was? Dammit Justice, no more field trips with my body when I'm asleep!”

“And the moonlit walk on the beach?” asked Fenris. “Isabela suggested that too, as I recall.”

“WE HAD A PICNIC ALONG THE WOUNDED COAST PLANNED. At night? But it's swarming with bandits at night! YES. THAT IS THE POINT.”

Fenris smiled, the warmth of Anders at his back and the softness of the bed lulling him to sleep in a way wine alone could never match. “Kill a couple groups of bandits, and then snacks? Sounds nice.”

“NEXT WEEK, THEN. I'LL BRING THE HONEY CAKES.”

 

* * *

 

Their conversation the next morning started at, “So you don't regret this, right?”, then moved through, “Seriously though, no manifesto talk in the bedroom,” and ended at, “I'll see you again tonight, then.”

There was more to discuss. A lot more. They disagreed on so much, and had very different visions of Kirkwall’s future. But, Fenris realized with a warm feeling in his chest, they had time to work it out.

  
At least now they could have make-up sex after they fought. Now _that_ he could look forward to.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words for how awesome you all have been. Your comments and kudos on this piece mean the world to me--I was so nervous about posting this, and your support seriously made my month. This fandom went from a cool thing that I lurked around to a place where I feel welcome. Thanks so much! And one last thanks to IoniaFletcher for gently stepping in, helping me resolve the story, and softening the blow when I realized I spelled half the cast's names wrong. You're the best!

“All three of the women? At once?” Carver looked stricken.

“Yup,” said the bartender, wiping down the counter.

“Damn. How am I supposed to live up to that?”

“You can't,” said Anders from behind Carver's shoulder, making him jump. Anders slid some coins across the bar to cover the room, then turned to head out.

Carver sighed. Then his eyes narrowed, spotting the strip of skin peeking through between Anders' boots and the hem of his robe. “Wait, are you not wearing pants? What happened to your pants?”

“You don't want to know. Let's just say I'm taking a leaf out of Isabela's book.”

“It's all the rage,” agreed Fenris as he met up with Anders, their hands brushing as they made their way to the door. “I hear the Viscount will be following suit any day now.”

Carver swore at their retreating backs, but the mental image of a pants-less Viscount was quickly forgotten as the entire card group stumbled into main room, all dazed, all wearing rumpled versions of the clothes they'd had on last night.

“Really Garrett? The dwarf, too?”

The older Hawke shrugged helplessly.

“I'm always gonna be in your shadow, aren't I?”

“It could be worse, Junior, it could be worse,” said Varric, reaching over to pat his arm with a suspiciously sticky hand that Carver was _not_ going to think about.

“Oh? How so?”

“You could have been there when Sebastian walked in on us.”

“Is that what that scream was?” said Carver. All of Lowtown had heard it. Carver had assumed it was someone being murdered.

“Don't remind me, I still can't hear out of one ear,” groused Isabela.

“Don't complain. Your ass didn't have a chantry book thrown at it. That thing was heavy,” Hawke said, rubbing at his his backside.

“Doesn't mean my ass isn't sore, too.” Isabela waggled her eyebrows at him, purring suggestively.

“Nope, nope, I'm not hearing this, I never heard this!”

“Carver,” said Hawke, sighing as Carver slapped his hands over his ears again.

“Sweetheart, it's natural. When a man and a woman and another woman and an elf and a dwarf love each other, sometimes they-” Isabela started, but Carver was up and out the door before she could finish.

“I'm finding a different Wicked Grace group!” he shouted back at them, ears still covered.

“You don't think he means it, do you?” said Merrill sadly.

“Probably best we didn't tell him what happened after Sebastian went and fetched a Chantry sister to help cleanse our souls,” Aveline said, and they all nodded in agreement. “There are some things the world's just not ready for yet.”


End file.
